Where Have All the Flowers Gone?
by Lady Heliotrope
Summary: What were trained soldiers to do when they no longer had someone to protect? Crabbe and Goyle struggle with the ramifications of being Slytherins after the war, and find comfort in each other.
1. Chapter 1

Where Have All the Flowers Gone?

A commission for S.W.

Prompt: Gregory Goyle and VIncent Crabbe with a baby.

Influences: clearly Peter, Paul, and Mary.

* * *

They pulled apart from each other with gasps and haggard breaths.

"I can't," Gregory said, and draped himself over Vincent's body. "I... I just want to be close to you."

Vincent - ever the harder one, the tougher one, despite his softer body - stroked his lover's hair. "Shh," he murmured, "it's all right."

"I thought you were... I thought..."

Greg tended to blubber when he was overwrought, and tonight was no different.

"Shhh," comforted Vincent. "This is the last time I'll be on the crew. I promise."

"But you've said that so many times," Gregory said, "and every time they call, you go back."

Vincent nodded solemnly. It wasn't any use denying it. He had not remained committed to his words.

"It's… it's like our parents with the Dark Lord," Greg added, burrowing his face in Vincent's shoulder, ashamed of the very thought.

The parallels between their current position and their parents' fealty to Voldemort were striking, yes, and Vincent felt the sting of guilt for not having kept his promises to Greg. How could he keep such promises, though, when his conscience bothered him so much that he had to keep himself moving, putting himself in harm's way on behalf of someone else's hide? How could he, when he had just barely figured out a way to provide for them both in this magnificently large Muggle world without any of the requisite skills or documents?

How could he, when his very life seemed to lack so much meaning? For all he really had to live for, he felt, was poor Greg.


	2. Chapter 2

**trigger warning: suicide, prejudice, homophobia, social shunning.**

* * *

It had been years since the two of them had left the wizarding world, hands in each other's jean pockets. The war and its aftermath had changed them substantially. Thank Circe for the leniency of the Wizengamot towards the children who had become Death Eaters while still enrolled at Hogwarts! Then again, what else could that governing body have done, when a significant fraction of the world's economy relied on the spinning wheels within wheels of the old Slytherins families like theirs? The Wizengamot could huff and puff, but ultimately its power was curtailed by the sheer amount of devastation that could be wrought by the summary execution of all the people enlisted as Death Eaters. As it was, people like Lucius Malfoy were scarcely given a slap on the wrist for the simple reason that an apology was about all the government could wheedle out of them.

There was no such thing as justice, the wizarding world learned as the new millennium dawned. Once the legal trials ended, the people who had fought for so many years to subjugate the rest... They simply were told not to do it again, and let off relatively easy. There were just too many of them to punish them all.

If legal justice could not prevail, apparently social justice would try. So the wizarding world spent years forming an ecosystem of hate around these people who had stolen so much of the lives of so many good people.

Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle had watched as the good people created an environment unsustainable for any of those who had been part of the death eaters. And, one by one, old friends of theirs who had survived the war began to slowly disappear.

A few followed in Draco's footsteps and committed suicide. Others became social recluses, fearing leaving the house for the wrath of people who loathed them by sight. Still others seemed to just wander farther and farther from the nexus of the wizarding world - a few left Britain for Romania, Kazakhstan, and Thailand. Others simply abandoned magic altogether, slipping into the world they'd fought so hard against.

Crabbe and Goyle were among the last to go. They'd stayed and endured the jeers of their peers in Diagon Alley, all for the sake of meeting each other in Fortescue's, to appease Vincent's ever present sweet tooth while Gregory sipped a bubbly seltzer. They'd borne the painful traumatizing soirees held in the homes of the shut-ins who harped on what latest tragedy had befallen them last time they'd left the house. They attended the funerals of a few old friends. And they both received tearful farewell letters from classmates they knew they would never see again.

One particularly terrible daytime soirée, they were the only ones to show up, given how they were of the dwindling number of young persons in the wizarding world without someplace to go every day.

As usual, they were thoughtlessly paired together, sitting on one side of the enormous table while their erstwhile companion and hostess, Eglantine Drips, sat at the head. She addressed her comments to the singular of them, "CrabbeandGoyle."

"This is Mr. Crabbe and Goyle," their former classmate said, addressing a potted geranium. "I was two years ahead of them at Hogwarts. They were the Malfoy Attaché."

The boys looked at each other, uncomfortable. It was a faux pas to bring up their service to the Malfoys as a polite topic of conversation, even in a conversation with a potted plant. It was commonly known to be a source of both pride and shame for their respective families - while it was an honorable way of a family repaying debts to charge their secondborn sons to be the defense of a major lord's son in the form of an attaché, it still was a way of repaying debts that the children themselves had not incurred.

Besides, they both felt it was their fault Draco had killed himself, even though they had all been in separate cells in Azkaban at the time. How else were they supposed to feel when they'd been raised from birth to serve and protect the Malfoy heir? Even five years after Draco's death, they faced reminder after reminder that they'd failed - and that stung.

Their mutual discomfort must have shone through, because Eglantine began to chuckle. "Come on now," she said, her eyes glistening with an unholy amount of masked pain, "the old days are over now. Surely we can talk about these matters as equals."

Vincent, ever stoic, simply stood, saying nothing. Then, with a familiar gesture to Greg, he left the room. Greg followed, glancing back at the aghast Eglantine only once before following his friend out of the house.

They apparated hand in hand to Greg's mother's home, which had been their plan from the first, and Vincent strode upstairs, his heavy body creaking on the boards.


	3. Chapter 3

**trigger warning: suicide, prejudice, homophobia, social shunning.**

* * *

The bedroom was dark. Greg didn't have to live here anymore, not with Lucius Malfoy's generous pension checks, but he stayed out of habit. It was less lonely.

Vincent hadn't been here for over a year, but he went straight to Greg's room and collapsed face first on the bed. It was a homely affair in what had used to be a walk-in closet before Greg's mother had taken a fancy to the idea of her sons having separate bedrooms, since both Goyle boys fought a lot. In more recent years, Greg's older brother had long since left for Eastern Europe to escape his demons by chasing dragons or what-have-you, but Greg remained in his old room. The walls were covered in Screeching Snipers posters, one of the Chudley Cannons' major rivals.

Vincent remained flat and unmoving on the bed for some time. Meanwhile, feeling uncomfortable, Greg pulled the trundle out from underneath the bed and wrapped himself in the musty blankets from on top. They hadn't slept close together for years now, and some old feelings rose up again in Gregory's heart. The blankets also smelled vaguely of Vincent, his oily skin having seeped into the fabric after the aggregate months of sleeping on the trundle.

After some silence, Greg turned on a lamp. It was a child's decoration with silhouettes of Quidditch players that floated across its shade. The glow was cozy, and Vincent stirred. Greg saw his friend turn over, and Vincent's eyes were glistening.

"That was uncalled for," Greg said sympathetically, extending his hand. Vincent took it and held it tightly. His breathing was slow and measured, which Greg took as a sign of him trying to control his temper.

"It was," Vincent said after a few tense moments. "She had no right to mock someone for serving someone who could appreciate one's talents."

Greg didn't exactly feel like Eglantine had been mocking, per se. But he didn't argue. Greg realized he hadn't seen Vincent like this for a while. Then again, they had drifted somewhat apart in the wake of the aftermath from the war. Maybe he just never had quite gotten better since it all ended.

"How's Flora?" asked Greg, speaking of Vincent's on-and-off girlfriend, who was a former Hufflepuff student, four years younger than them.

Vincent just shook his head and buried his face in the pillows.

"Oh."

Greg might not have been as close to Vincent as he'd have liked in the past several years, but like a long lost twin brother, he read all the old signs. Vincent was in a very dark place indeed. And the incident at Eglantine's wasn't the half of it.

"Come on," Greg said, gently - hesitantly - doing the old comforting habit they'd shared, scratching the back of Vincent's neck with his nails. Vincent didn't shake him off, so he kept at it. "What happened?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Vincent said. "I suppose it was a long time coming."

Greg nodded sympathetically. There wasn't much one could say in this situation, after all.

"I... I don't want to be here anymore," Vincent confessed finally. "I want to be gone."

Greg felt a tug at his heartstrings. "Do you mean from wizarding Britain? Or do you mean... Like Draco?"

Vincent tried to pull himself together but it wasn't quite working. "Both. Either. I don't bloody know."

Gregory felt an overwhelming sadness. "I see," he said carefully, and held Vincent's hand tighter. "Well, how about for a start, maybe we can leave this place."

Vincent took notice of the subtly enclosed 'we,' and stared hard at Greg for a moment. Then, with a nod of acceptance, he went on, his throat tight, "Where could we go, though? I can't leave my mother. You know how she is."

Gregory of course did know what Lady Crabbe was like. She was sweet and pathetic, a mirror image for the harsh Lady Goyle.

"What if we don't leave England," Greg said, his voice uncertain. "You could still be close at hand if needed."

Vincent shook his head. "I... I don't know what you mean. Do you think we should... Become Muggles?"

Greg shook his head. "We will never be Muggles, never, ever. We are wizards. Our environment will never change that. But I think we could both do with a fresh start."

"...Yes," Vincent said with some hesitation. He sighed. "I... I'm glad you would want to do this," he said with a hint of confessionalism. "I have been thinking for a while that it might be best to just... Leave all this."

He sighed deeply. "It would be nice to be somewhere new. With you."

"I... feel the same way," Greg affirmed, and his heart leapt up in his chest. "I would like us to get back to how close we were, before... everything bad happened."

"Yes," said Vincent, and his chest rose and fell slowly, tentatively. Gregory knew that he was steadying himself for something.

"What are you thinking?" asked Greg curiously, feeling his own heartbeat quicken.

Vincent turned his head and looked at Greg, a sense of nervous anticipation in his eyes.

"Do you remember," he said, swallowing, "how we used to be, back before I started dating Millicent?"

Greg felt his throat choke up, as he re-experienced the fleeting memories of things that, in his cherishing of them, he had replayed far too many times to remember accurately. The ghost of a hand rested on his thighs as Vincent had once touched him there, then pulled on his member and…

He shuddered with pleasure. They had done things, together. Greg's mind wandered back to their first time. He vividly recalled how it all had gone.

One night at Hogwarts, Vincent introduced Gregory to things that Greg had been too timid to try before on his own, much less with someone else.

"You're so fat," he'd said, insensitive, looking over a shirtless Vincent. Reading the obvious fascination that played out on Gregory's face, Vincent had smiled grimly. He knew his weakness for food - and its inconvenient aftereffects - better than anyone else, after years of poking and prodding from his also-tubby brothers and father.

"That's why I've got to practice, don't you see?" Vincent had said, grinning with a shy vulnerability. "If you can't lure in pussy like a young Malfoy does, you better keep them coming back, right?"

It was news to Gregory that Malfoy had acquired any pussy whatsoever, but he supposed Vincent knew more about these sorts of things in general.

"I guess," Gregory had agreed, his heart sinking. Of course this had to be about girls, didn't it? The disappointment had been bitter, but he couldn't do anything about it.

So Gregory had accepted Vincent's desire as it was. It was hard, but he managed to shove away his own conflicted feelings. Because, after all, Vincent was here, doing this with him right now - not with a girl. At the very least, Vincent would show him how things were done - these deeply confusing, befuddling things. His apparatus made no sense.

Vincent was very well practiced with his own apparatus, however, and soon with Vincent showing him the way it was done, it had all finally made sense to poor Gregory. Letting Vincent's hands go over him… that had been ravishing. And Vincent had, upon realizing it was Gregory's first time, made a special effort to teach Gregory, pressing Gregory's own hands with his pudgy fingers, guiding Gregory's hands up and down.

Gregory had been overcome with the adrenaline of fear - was his body supposed to feel this good? But Vincent had kept at it, and then torn off his own pants, and gently offered himself up for Greg to touch.

As time went on, they touched each other in ways Gregory had scarcely dreamed anyone would. Also in ways he'd never even thought of, creative though he was.

As weeks went on, it felt like the practice-for-the-girls excuse was merely that - an excuse. Vincent certainly seemed to enjoy himself during their clandestine moments of triumph.

It just didn't feel good to spend the rest of their time together talking ad nauseum about the fairer sex with such fruitless abandon. When they went out and about their business, Vincent was the first to point out the shape of a girl's bum or evidence of someone not wearing underpants. Even Draco was sufficiently disgusted by Vincent's vulgar interests, and he certainly wasn't a queer.

Queer. Yes, after a while, Greg realized that's what he himself was. He couldn't muster an interest in girls like all the other boys could. And, it seemed, Vincent wasn't. queer, because he did like girls. But at the same time, based on the evidence, it was also impossible that Vincent wasn't queer. Because who else but a queer would enjoy the kind of touches that they shared?

And, it was unquestionable in Greg's mind that Vincent enjoyed it. The same kind of radiant joy that came when Vincent was presented with a Malfoy feast also showed in his eyes when they were together. That was definitely a sign of a queer, Greg thought.

But whether or not Vincent was queer was one question that certainly didn't ruin their relationship. Instead, Greg had to go and ruin a good thing when he had it. One day he had protested when Vincent was pontificating on the beauty of one particular girl's rear end, describing doing to it something that he had, repeatedly, done to Gregory. He called it 'picking flowers.'

Gregory had looked in Vincent's eyes, and, at that moment, seen a kind of hatred that he realized had been there all along - a kind of desire to punish, to plunder, to dominate. It was unsettling, and very scary.

And Gregory realized that Vincent's feelings about the things they did together... They weren't entirely as pure and innocent as Greg's own feelings on the matter. Of course, it felt a bit odd to call such lustful thoughts innocent, but they were pure, unadulterated, vehement, emphatic desire. The look in Vincent's eyes showed that he saw these acts in a different way - as something twisted, like digging into an open, infected wound with a rusty nail.

Greg knew it was somehow tied up in Vincent's obsession with serving. While Greg took his role in the attachee in stride, a role that was meaningful and important, but ultimately just a role, Vincent's identity was deeply intertwined with the idea that he must be an optimal protector, a perfect impasse, a mountain of immovability. Only then did Gregory see that there was a darker flip side, in the bedroom. As he looked at Vincent, he saw how Vincent's role as the protector was dangerously close to subverting, how Vincent desired to become the aggressor, the inflictor of pain, the abusive master. It had never come out in Vincent's actions, but in that moment, Greg caught a glimpse of the ruthlessness in Vincent's eyes.

It was terrifying to see. And Greg had privately decided, then and there, that what they had been doing in the dark wasn't healthy. Of course they'd always known it wasn't healthy from the start - sex with blokes wasn't healthy no matter how you sliced it - but there was something even darker in Vincent's desire than just an appreciation of Greg's taut behind. There was something almost malevolent, almost monstrous, lurking beneath those urges.

And that night, when Vincent's hands came wandering that night, Gregory pushed his friend out of the bed and said, with heartbreak in his voice, "Sod off."

He'd been hoping Vincent would protest, ask what was wrong, kiss away the doubts that were poisoning him.

But Malfoy's voice had come out of the darkness: "Let's not quarrel over trifles, gentlemen," in a lofty, knowing way that startled Greg quite a lot because Malfoy had never given the impression of either knowing or caring about their trysts.

And, sheepishly, Vincent had crawled away, the darker part of him coiled tighter by his servant's instincts, and had never come back again or acknowledged what had happened.

Until that moment, as they lay in Greg's old bedroom after Eglantine's terrible party.

Gregory felt his throat grow tight. "I do remember." He let the words sit there, unemphasized, and he realized that there were wheels turning in Vincent's mind.

"I... I wish we hadn't stopped," Vincent said. He seemed to be biting back his own viciousness, trying desperately to be simple and forthright, but that terrifying desire to overpower was there in his voice.

There was a deeply contemplative pause as Gregory's hands began shaking with anticipation. Perhaps, as an adult, he didn't mind that darker power that Vincent had. He'd certainly thought about it a lot, over the years. Maybe it would even be exciting.

Soon he realized that he couldn't wait, and his wiry fingers reached between Vincent's plumper ones. They were soft, and cold.

Gregory said nothing, but brought Vincent's hands to his lips, and gracefully gave them kisses. Unravel yourself. Let yourself be free. Let me serve you.

Vincent's body began shaking, and Gregory realized with a bewildering shock that Vincent was crying.

"Let's... bugger it," Vincent said between gasps, "Let's just take off. No one will miss us anyhow."

Gregory opened his mouth to protest, but realized he couldn't, not without lying to them both.


	4. Chapter 4

**trigger warning: anger/abuse, drinking,**

* * *

That was what led them to the current state of affairs. They had fumbled around the World of Muggles for a few years now, and had only recently truly gotten on their feet. Gregory now went by the more modern name of Greg, and he worked in the capacity of a medical receptionist, regularly astonishing everyone he worked with by his lack of mathematical and technological knowledge. He told everyone he grew up home-schooled by a religious family, and they tutted understandingly and indulged his incompetencies.

Vincent, surprising to them both, had found work as a construction laborer, and sometimes scowlingly went by Vince. He'd felt like he wasn't clever enough for even a modest white-collar job - not that he really understood terms like 'white-collar' and 'blue-collar' when they'd started out.

That would have been fine with Greg for the long term. Their life was comfortable, even though Lucius Malfoy's pension checks had abruptly stopped when they signed a lease in an outer borough of Muggle London.

But Vincent hadn't been satisfied. There was something that was eating at him, and while his bosses appreciated his work, for some reason he never got enthusiastically picked up twice by the same crewman. He went out searching for work at the lots of hardware stores, standing in the sun from dawn until someone selected him to work. And every week he had to find himself a new lot, because he wasn't being picked anymore.

What a burden for a man accustomed to service to find himself with no one worthy to serve.

Greg was secretly ashamed, even though he knew there was nothing Vincent could do about it. He did suspect, however, that Vincent didn't do his best to ingratiate himself with his employers. In fact, quite the opposite - once Vincent had come to meet him at work, and Greg's coworker and friend, Michelle, had said, not knowing Vincent was Greg's significant other, that Vincent looked like a powder keg about to blow.

Vincent's growing frustration at his lack of appreciation kept gnawing at him, day in and day out. When Greg was promoted to office manager, Vincent could barely say a civil word.

Vincent did his best to stay away from drinking during the workweek, but too soon his weekend binges started to color the week.

What a sense of despair they both felt - Vincent for his lack of meaningful and lucrative work, Greg because Vincent was miserable, and only growing worse.

Greg felt like they needed some other focal point despite their love for each other. He felt his neck crane despite itself whenever he passed a gurgling baby during his lunch breaks in the park. He found his eyes doting on the packaging of pacifiers and diapers when he went to Tesco. He felt an emptiness in his fingers when he saw a mother helping her little one up the stairs to the library.

Vincent, he was sure, would find joy in serving a little one. A little one would be the greatest font of appreciation and meaning for him, Greg was certain.

So he brought the idea of having children up gently to Vincent, testing the waters. Unfortunately, he faced a challenge. Vincent had always been adamantly against children since they themselves were young themselves, detailing at length how disgusting children were and how loathsome the Weasley brood was. But, they had not talked on the subject for years.

Greg brought it up, gently at first, and then more pressing - and found that Vincent continued to be a stone wall on the subject. When he'd been drinking, he would become aggravated and surly whenever Greg even thought about children in his presence. (Apparently, Greg went gooey-eyed after the creatures, even ones on the telly, and gave himself completely away.)

The subject was closed, ultimately, even before it opened. Greg felt the dull pain of it weigh upon him, but reconciled himself to the fact that, well, Vincent was immovable on this, and that was part of what made Vincent himself. So, with sadness, Greg did his best to move on. He wasn't willing to dismiss the possibility of a baby being the fix for Vincent's temper and depression, but he did dismiss it from the realm of feasible.

As it happened, Vincent found his own way of fixing himself. One day, Vincent came home with a strange smile in his voice.

"I won't be doing construction work any more," he said proudly as Greg set the table the Muggle way - taking plates from the cupboard and forks from the drawer. They used magic occasionally to clean house and do laundry, but tried to practice small tasks without magic, to better blend into their surroundings. It made the task of making Muggle friends easier, Greg felt.

"Why's that?" Greg asked, his heart lightening at Vincent's buoyancy.

Vincent outright grinned - which he rarely ever did anymore, Greg realized.

"I got me a new sort of job."

"A Muggle job?" Asked Greg.

Vincent nodded. "But some of the crew are Our People, squibs and other people who left like us, so it's all right. They can use me - all of me - with all of my strengths. I can serve them well."

But the proud smirk on his face was accompanied by a sense of acute anticipation. Worry, perhaps?

"But there's a catch, as they say here," Greg said, his own smile fading.

Vincent shrugged, trying to make it seem less of a big deal. "Not really. I just don't think you'll approve, is all."

Greg sat down abruptly, his face serious.

"What kind of job?" Greg asked, reading the joy in Vincent's face and desiring desperately to approve, just to prove his partner wrong.

Vincent looked like he was overwhelmed with his good news, but there was also some great reluctance in his face to telling Greg. "I don't want to jinx it," he said, "but suffice it to say, it's something I'm very good at."

It didn't take much brainpower to read between the lines. "You're protecting somebody," Greg said, his voice thoughtful. "You're protecting someone who is powerful."

"I can neither confirm nor deny this," Vincent said, an uncharacteristic sparkle in his eyes. "I do know, however, that I am to discourage questions from anyone who isn't my spouse."

Greg frowned. The tone of Vincent's voice seemed to imply that Vincent indeed had a spouse. "What...who..." he began to ask, but Vincent was down on one knee, pulling a black box out of his pocket.

"This is the customary Muggle way, isn't it?" Vincent asked with a grin as Greg gasped with pleasure and surprise.

"You're... Oh you Slytherin bastard," Greg said with tears welling up behind his eyes. "It's not like we can get married truly, you know."

Vincent nodded. "We can acquire a civil union, which is nearly as good. We couldn't even do that much in the wizarding world. I imagine the Muggle world will become a little more accommodating within our lifetimes. So just consider this a promise. Fiancee."

Greg nodded. "I love you, and I promise to marry you, too," he said, and took the black box out of Vincent's hand.

"Help me up, love?" Vincent asked, and Greg grabbed his partner's hand and helped heave the heavy man up. Then Greg turned his attention to the ring.

"Where'd you get the money for this?" he asked. The ring was silver, subtle, elegant, and magical - Vince must have had to go to Diagon Alley for it. And also very expensive, despite its unassuming appearance.

Vincent grinned. "They gave me an advance. A very generous one, I dare say."

Greg smiled, though a little bit of him worried about Vincent's obsession with who was the breadwinner between them. Hopefully if Vincent was the one making more money, it would help their relationship level out a little more. Comparable salaries were unimportant to Greg, who simply valued being with Vincent above all other things. But Vincent had a great deal more pride, juxtaposed in a constant struggle against a great deal of self loathing. If this new job made Vincent feel better, Greg was all for it. Still, he worried.

"I'm glad your talents will be appreciated," Greg said, and embraced his partner's soft middle, pressing his face into Vincent's bulky taut chest. "You've been squandered for far too long."

Vincent grunted warmly, his arms wrapping themselves in an overwhelming way around Greg that made Greg feel tremendously protected. This was the Vincent he knew and loved. Greg's hand scratched Vincent's neck affectionately, then pressed down to guide Vincent's face to meet his own in a deep kiss.

"Come," said Vincent after a warm silence, "let's have dinner. Italian, with some good wine."

"Just one bottle, though?" Greg found himself asking, a whine intruding in his voice despite himself.

Vincent stared hard into Greg's eyes, then said, softly, "You know, we don't need any wine to have a good time, do we?"

Greg felt his lust flare up immediately, and his heart sigh with relief.

"No, we don't," he said, grateful beyond words and hopeful that Vincent would continue to eschew drink. Any job was worth it if it meant Greg had his wonderful, sober lover back.


	5. Chapter 5

At least, that's what he'd thought at the time. As it happened, the job was far more demanding than either of them expected.

Initially, they were both optimistic. Every other week, Vincent was on call around the clock, and every other week he was only called upon for a few hours each day. Vincent never told Greg explicitly who he was working for, but Greg was clever and could piece it together based on Vincent's conservative hints.

Vincent's new employer was a highly important man who spent a great deal of time in the Middle East, which meant often that Vincent went out of town during his on-call week and came back, tanned and painfully gassy from all the hummus.

All in all, Vincent was tremendously satisfied. He was respected for his skills in defense - no one asked questions when he used subtle fighting magic. His abilities to obliviate, confound, apparate, and such made him prized.

His relatively peaceful schedule dealing with various run of the mill assassination and poisoning attempts was disrupted come the July 2005 subway bombings in London.

All of a sudden, Vincent's employer was working double time, and his staff members were too. Whereas they had previously remained clear of active combat zones, the needs and priorities of the agencies that funded their goals required them to change their modus operandi.

Then the job wasn't fun anymore.

At first, the worst injuries that Vincent sustained at work were his abdominal pains from the beans, and sometimes a cut or bruise, but nothing significant.

Greg's worry, however, grew in proportion to Vincent's work related injuries.

"There's such a thing as worker's compensation," Greg said one day as he nursed Vincent's most recent injury, a severe knife laceration of the hand that had required stitches.

"Yeah," Vincent said, but shrugged. He'd lost quite a bit of weight during his last trip of three weeks, which made him look deflated and haggard. Greg fully intended to plumpen him up before his partner went back out to the front lines.

"I'm worried about you," Greg said, surveying Vincent with a critical eye. "You look like you're not taking care of yourself."

Vincent just nodded. To deny that he was in danger would be a lie.

The worry that plagued Greg did not abate as Vincent's work schedule became increasingly overwhelming, and Vincent was soon out of the house for three weeks a month.

"This isn't sustainable," Greg said one day, as Vincent nursed a severe burn injury on his arm. "Not hearing from you for three weeks at a time - no calls, no emails, no texts? I can't do that, Vincent. It's not fair to either of us."

Vincent outright pouted. "But it's work, Greg. I don't make the rules."

Greg's eyes were stony in response. "Then make the rules better," he said, "because I'm driving myself sick over you. I worry that one day, you just won't come back. That you'll have been blown up and your pieces scattered across the desert. And I won't even know. It's not fair, Vincent and I think you know that."

Vincent opened his mouth to argue, but seeing the sense of his partner's words, closed it again.

Thereafter, once a week, Greg received a call via satellite phone from Vincent, wherever he was.

But that didn't mean Vincent didn't come home looking the worse and worse for wear.

Finally, one day, Greg was making himself a lonely TV dinner in the microwave when there was the sound of a knock on the door. It was faint enough that it might have been the neighbor's cat jumping on their roof, but the ever expectant Greg went to the front door anyway.

He was immensely distressed to find Vincent there, crumpled where he sat on the front stairs, his face covered in streaks of blood, his clothing torn, and his abdomen bleeding.

"What happened to you?" exclaimed Greg, who hurriedly drew his wand and levitated his partner inside to the couch. "Oh my poor darling."

Vincent just mumbled something sickly, and Greg gathered up the fragile man and put him in bed.

This ended up being a bit of a problem because, as it happened, Vincent's injuries included a severe laceration to the abdomen that included his internal organs, and he cried out in exhausted pain.

"You're in really bad shape, my darling," Greg said, and removed Vincent's suit jacket and bloodied white button-down shirt.

"They took care of me," said Vincent. "Good doctor." He shook a bottle of painkillers, fumbled with the cap, and dropped the whole thing. The unopened plastic bottle rolled lightly across the wooden floor, and stopped moving as it met the fringe of the carpet.

Greg just shook his head. "Your bosses really take their 'no hospitals' rule seriously." He bent and picked up the bottle, and put it in his pocket. Then he pulled off Vincent's tight undershirt, which stuck to his body with blood and sweat, and he saw his partner's bare body heave with pain and relief.

"You really shouldn't have been sent home from whatever your company passes as a hospital," Greg said softly, seeing how Vincent's bandages were soaked through with blood. "You aren't fit to be seen, much less walk on your own."

"They didn't dump me on the porch, if that's what you're implying," Vincent said with a jagged breath as Greg gently peeled off the bandages. "I came against doctor's orders."

Greg immediately stopped. "I'm not going to have to sew you up, am I?" he asked, chewing on his lower lip. He worked in a radiologist's office, but that didn't mean he had any medical skills whatsoever.

Vincent shook his head weakly. "Not at all, my love," he murmured, "they already did the stitches. Just... take care of me." He sighed deeply.

Greg patted his partner's shoulder and stood. "I have to go and get some gauze from the pharmacy," he said, surveying the mess of Vincent's body. "I'll be back."

"No need," Vincent said, waving towards the bathroom. "Under the sink in the loo."

Eyes wide, Greg went to go check. Lo and behold, there was an unwrapped package of surgical tape and several packets of sterile gauze, as well as betadine.

"When did you get this?" asked Greg, bringing the objects into the room, and Vincent mutely shrugged. "Never mind. Poor darling."

Vincent didn't respond as Greg finished the process of bandaging him up again. Only when Greg lay down alongside him, one hand protectively on his partner's chest, did Vincent confess, "I have it because I needed it, before, and knew I'd need it more later."

Greg turned and looked into Vincent's eyes. "What," he breathed, "you have been this badly injured before and didn't tell me?"

His mind went back to the last few times Vincent had come home, and realized that each there had been something off. Once he had been sex-shy, jacking off Greg with hand jobs instead of topping him as was their usual preference, dismissing this as a mood he was in. Another time, Vincent had refused to take off his shirt the entire time he was home, citing new stretch marks on his belly that made him uncomfortable showing his skin (not that this had ever been a point of sensitivity before, with him). Then there was the time that Vincent had worn gloves for several days upon returning home, only taking them off the day before he left again.

In short, Greg realized in retrospect that Vincent was a veteran of severe battlefield injuries, and it pained him that Vincent's pride was such that he hadn't told him about the worst of them.

"You can't hide this from me," Greg said, tears welling in his voice. "I'm your fiancée. I have a right to know when you're in pain."

"I'm not in pain," said Vincent with a snort, but then he shuddered. "All right, mostly not in pain. The meds help."

"You know bloody well what I mean, you arse." Greg curled up and tried to swallow his tears. "This isn't worth it, Vincent."

Vincent was silent for several moments, and his thumb, tucked around Greg's wrist, stopped massaging Greg's palm abruptly. He was angered, Greg knew, and was trying to think of something to say that wasn't too hurtful - their relationship counselor had warned Vincent of thinking before speaking, and Vincent was taking her demand seriously.

"It's worth it for me," he said slowly. "And, Greg... This is why I didn't tell you." He sighed through his nose. "I don't want you to tell me what to do. You made such a to-do about my more minor injuries, I thought it'd be best not to trouble your head about them."

"I don't want to tell you what to do," Greg said, "but this... This is self destruction, my darling. You're in too deep, and if you're coming back with worse and worse wounds-"

"-This is far and away NOT my most serious wound," said Vincent rashly, then backed down immediately. "Sorry."

"That doesn't make it better!" exclaimed Greg. "If you are becoming inured to this kind of treatment... That means it's worse than I even thought. Vince, darling. I know you want me to stop bossing you around, but if you're not going to make prudent choices, then I feel I have an obligation to do something about it."

Greg sat up and looked into Vincent's eyes. "You are going to resign, Vincent. You are never going to go back."

"No," answered Vincent, his voice cold. "That's not possible. They need me."

Greg racked his brains, realizing that he wouldn't get past Vincent's immovable mountain of sheer will. He'd have to take a different strategy. "Is it possible to take less dangerous assignments?"

Vincent paused, and finally said, with a sense of lazy doubtfulness, "Perhaps. But what they really need me for is the harder stuff."

Greg's eyes narrowed with attention. "How can you get less dangerous assignments?"

Vincent looked uncomfortable, and did not immediately answer.

"Tell me!" exclaimed Greg, and Vincent looked sufficiently cowed at the tremendous amount of fierceness in his partner's eyes.

"Well," Vincent said, sounding as if he were regretting the notion, "Mulligan and his wife had a baby, and they put him on less intensive assignments."

"...That's it?" Greg said with a dark expression, "a baby?"

He was angered that Vincent had even dared to mention it. He had in his heart begged for so long, now, to have a baby with Vincent, and the pain of Vincent's consistent denial had been a secret burden, growing heavier every time he went to the supermarket and saw a mother with child in sling, walked down the street and saw a father with a stroller, took the tube and gave up his seat for a pregnant lady. And now Vincent brought up the idea so casually, without realizing how fraught Greg's own feelings were. It was highly inconsiderate, and if Greg didn't already know that Vincent's cunning tended to be directed more outwards (at the rest of the world) than inwards (at him), he would have suspected his partner of being brazenly manipulative.

Vincent must have sensed the anger building in Greg's heart.

"But he's been with Strex for over five years," Vincent qualified, his voice growing placating as he saw that he'd screwed up royally, and deeply regretted what he'd said, "that's a long time, in this field."

"I suppose," said Greg. He took a deep breath. "I should have known," he murmured, his eyes focused dully on the pillow in front of him. "When will I ever learn."

No wonder Vincent got his knickers in a twist about children so much. Having a child meant he'd have to change everything about his life, and given his servant complex, that was something he'd never even seriously consider.

"Greg," Vincent said after a few moments, "are you about to start guilting me into doing what I've railed against for our entire lives?"

"No," Greg said, "no. Not everything I do is a Slytherin scheme, my sweet." He grimaced. "If I was less charitable," he found himself saying, despite his better judgment, "I'd say that you love this job more than you love me."

"It's not like that," Vincent said quietly.

They sat in silent stillness for several minutes.

"Well," Greg said, no longer able to hold the heat that threatened to destroy his heart, "it certainly looks that way, from the face of it."

He took a deep breath, contemplated his next words, and added with some calculated, dexterous stabs, "Instead of caring about my happiness, and consenting for me to fulfill my desire for love and progeny, you instead both demand my faithfulness while you go off on your Odysseys, from whence I never know when you will return, and you don't even have the decency to make an honest woman of your Penelope, so to speak, and grant me a little bugger to keep me company."

"How is your classics course coming?" interrupted Vincent casually, desperately trying to shelter himself during the eye of the storm.

"They're going well," conceded Greg, but would not be deterred. "There's a cute boy there. Chubby and sweet, like you, and crushing on me like a Hufflepuff in heat. I'm thinking of asking him out - since my fiancée isn't here to take me out most of the time. I bet *he* would have a baby with me in a heartbeat."

"You wouldn't," Vincent snarled, and with great strength of will, grimacing against the pain, he sat up.

"No," said Greg, rolling his eyes, "there is no boy, Vincent. That's not the point. The point is - if you're going to insist on remaining at your job, where rising in rank seems to mean increasing the danger of whatever it is you do and the severity of your injuries, you'd bloody well at least give me someone to love me when you don't come back one day."

This seemed to resonate deeply with Vincent, and he swallowed hard. Greg usually heard Vincent argue about the importance of being a reliable provider, and the importance for him of having a job with opportunity for advancement.

But today, he was not arguing. "You've never explained it that way before," Vincent said with a deep sadness in his voice. "I hear you. I hear you."

His eyes looked into Greg's, and they bore the pain of love and sacrifice. "We'll do it," he said softly. "We'll get you a baby, Greg."

Greg's eyes fluttered wide open. He hadn't expected it to be so easy. "Really?" he said, and felt his throat constrict with the warning of tears. "Really?"

"Yes," Vincent said with a sigh. "Might as well give you something else to coo over and worry about when I'm not here."

Greg threw his arms around his partner and, with gasping breaths, began to cry. "Thank you," he whimpered, "thank you. It's a service to me," he choked out. "It really is."

Vincent groaned, and nodded, but kissed Greg's cheek and wiped away Greg's tears.


	6. Chapter 6

The result of this conversation was that Vincent and Greg began to explore their options for adoption. Muggle agencies took forever, but Greg felt like it was important to not adopt from the wizarding world. They'd left it for reasons, and didn't want to drag their child into it.

Vincent was more in favor of adopting from the wizarding world. After learning about Voldemort's history, he seemed to be drawn to the idea of providing a safe and loving home to a magical child that might otherwise be cast aside and, potentially, become the next evil wizard.

They conceded by deciding that they'd submit applications through both avenues of opportunity, and take whichever child came to them first. After all, a child was a child, Greg realized.

In the meantime, Vincent said he'd try and work on finding ways to reduce his involvement with his company and not be as endangered. As Greg worried about finances, Vincent quietly showed him the contents of his bank account, and Greg was astonished by the contents.

So all his worries aside, Greg was intensely happy. He began to dress up the little-used guest room in their house, and did everything he could to prepare.

It wasn't long before they got a call from the Ministry of Magic's adoption representative, and after an even shorter time, they had a squirming bundle of baby in their arms.

Or, more accurately, Greg's arms. Vincent let his employer know about the coming baby, and they agreed to have him step down to a per-diem 'consultative' basis. But only after one final mission.

So Vincent was gone when their child was delivered.

Melanie Croyle (they opted for a portmanteau rather than a hyphen) was a darling bundle of gurgling cuteness from the moment she nestled in Greg's arms. The men had been wanting a little boy, but all Greg's desire for that vanished when he saw his daughter for the first time. She was sweet and gentle, and while she cried as much as was appropriate for her age of six months, she was remarkably confident and poised. She was a pudgy little dumpling who was competent at rolling over, making jabbering noises combining syllables she heard, and able to sit up all on her own.

Greg was thoroughly in love, and indulged her endlessly. But as the first week went by, then second, then third, without Vincent returning home, he felt increasingly despondent. Vincent should have been there to see this. He was a father, too.

It was with great relief when Vincent returned and, with a sigh, settled into his easy chair with a permanent thump. "I'm home," he said, "and I'm not even bruised, Greg."

Greg grinned at Vincent's implication. "I'll have to inspect you," he said with happiness in his voice, "but first, meet Melanie."

Vincent's entire face softened as the little girl landed in his arms.

"Is she showing signs of magic?" he asked quietly, stroking her little toes.

"No," Greg said with a smile. "But that's not to be expected until about the first or second year. It's unusual for signs to be evident this early."

Vincent nodded, solemnly. He gazed deeply into Melanie's eyes, and they seemed to be having a serious conversation in complete silence. Then Melanie burped, and Vincent patted her tummy gently with the tips of his fingers.

"Even if she's a squib," he said, his voice low and soft, "she's our little girl."

"Yes," Greg said, and his heart thrilled to hear Vincent say so. "Yes, she's our little girl."


	7. Chapter 7

Despite their optimism about Vincent's work situation, however, it soon became clear that it wasn't the radical change that Greg had hoped it would be.

Being a per-diem 'consultant' for the company meant that Vincent would get odd calls at random times during the day or night, and he'd seal himself in a modified bubble-head charm for these conversations with a mute apology to Greg.

That didn't bother Greg that much. What worried him was when Vincent would pick up and leave, in the middle of the night, responding to one of these calls to go see what was happening, wherever in the world his organization was working. He'd apparate from the kitchen at practically a moment's notice. It got to the point where Greg felt a pang of nausea whenever Vincent's cellphone rang.

At first, the situation was tolerable, though, and Greg felt like he had no right to complain. Vincent seemed to keep himself clean, not getting directly involved in the conflicts at the other side of his apparation. And he was paid enormous sums of money for the privilege of going off to war. He gloated over this, and told Greg that he was making more as a part-time consultant than he'd been making as a full-time contractor.

"And," he said happily, bouncing Melanie on his lap, "I get to spend more time with the most important people in the world to me."

Greg had to say, he'd gotten everything he wanted out of the situation, but that didn't mean his unease was lifted.

Soon the other shoe dropped, as Greg had expected. Slowly, Vincent's calls began to end in more and more blood. He'd always get patched up by the company physician before returning home, but his injuries were often deep, and serious, and he'd often be called away again before he was completely done healing.

Vincent's work life had merely mutated into a different kind of beast, and Greg didn't like it one bit.

Each time he came home, Greg cared for his injuries, showered him with tempting treats to help him get his strength back up, and then, when Vincent was in a replete and benevolent mood, Greg would beg Vincent to never go away again.

At first Vincent refused to even consider the notion, but as the year went on, his view seemed to soften.

The key to this was Melanie, in truth. Once she began to vocalize better, Greg trained her quickly to join him in his efforts of persuasion.

Vincent knew how to deflect and dismiss Greg's worrywort attitude. He was completely at a loss to argue when he looked into the chubby face of his two-year-old as she said, eyes wide, "Daddy stay home. No leave."

And only then did Vincent begin to promise that this next time was going to be the last time.

Of course, when he said it, he meant it. But then when the call came, and he tried to turn down the request, there was something in him that couldn't quite deny his employer.

He really didn't mean to cause the pain and worry that filled Greg's face each time he picked up and left, and he swore up and down that he was going to stop going out on missions.

Hurting Greg was hard. But challenge his desire to serve, to remedy all the mistakes he'd made in his youth by joining the Death Eaters, to make the world better with his job… that was so much harder.


	8. Chapter 8

Which led to their situation one night, where Greg was suffering from food poisoning after getting some poor Chinese food, was sleep-deprived after caring for Melanie being ill, and was overwhelmed with fear for Vincent's life.

Since the arrival of the baby, Vincent had been good about keeping in touch with Greg when he was away, making a satellite call approximately every other day. So it was not only odd, but alarming when Vincent didn't reach out for over two weeks.

This is it, Greg had told himself as his anxiety mounted. He was in bed after having thrown up for over an hour, and Melanie was asleep in her cradle after hours of on-and-off crying. Greg had been too exhausted to cope with it well, and felt guilty for neglecting her. All he could manage was a quick diaper check, nose wipe, and comforting spell before he lay back down again himself. This is the end. I'm going to receive a call soon telling me that Vincent has been blasted to smithereens, and I'll be all alone.

He paused, and rethought that. No, not completely alone. At least he let us have Melanie.

He began to mourn Vincent, thinking about how he'd cradled Melanie, added sugar to sweeten her bottle when Greg wasn't looking, and changed her diaper with a sense of calm and equanimity that had surprised Greg.

We didn't take enough photographs, he thought exhaustedly as he lay in bed, feeling tears drip down his cheeks. What if I forget what he looks like?

He sniffed snottily, and then chuckled at himself a little. Don't be melodramatic. You're no Gryffindor.

He closed his eyes. What would Salazar Slytherin do?

He supposed Slytherin would just keep calm and carry on, so to speak, so that's what he would have to do as well. It was a miserable thought.

Greg was exhausted with his churning thoughts, and he began to doze off, his hand protectively on the edge of Melanie's cradle, when the front door opened and Vincent's heavy step was on the threshold.

"I'm home," called Vincent with a rumble, and Greg sat up in bed. He cast a glance at himself in the mirror - his face was drained of color, and strained.

He tried to call out to Vincent, but couldn't manage more than a croak. His stomach turned again, and he barely got his head over the wastebasket before his guts spilled out.

"Greg?"

Vincent came into the bedroom, looking not the worse for wear at all - in fact, he looked quite dapper, holding a bouquet of sunflowers, wearing a nice, tailored white suit, and well-tanned. He threw the sunflowers on the bed and tore off his suitjacket when he saw how Greg was.

"Darling, are you sick?"

Greg nodded, his eyes welling with tears.

Vincent settled down next to Greg, grabbed a tissue, and wiped away the vileness at the corners of Greg's mouth. "I'm so sorry. I'm here now, though."

"Thanks," Greg said, and began to cry.

"There, there," murmured Vincent warmly, and peeled off the remainder of his outer clothes. In just his boxers and undershirt, he crawled into bed with Greg, and kissed the other man's cheek. "It's all right, you'll be all right."

"Take care of me," said Greg, his tears dangerously close to sobbing. "I need that right now."

"Shh, shh," said Vincent with a low, apologetic tone. "I'll fetch some seltzer."

With a wave of his hand, he accio'ed some bubbly water from the fridge, opened it, and poured some into Greg's mouth. Greg started coughing, as it went down the wrong way, and he spit it out over the side of the bed.

"I'm sorry," Vincent said, guilt coloring his voice darkly, and he thumped Greg's back. "It's all right. You'll be all right."

They huddled there in the dark for a while, Greg alternately shivering and shaking. Then Melanie woke up, and Vincent got up to cradle her and give her a bottle. Greg didn't even protest when Vincent added a spoonful of sugar to the formula.

After a few hours, Melanie was cozily asleep in Vincent's arms, and Greg was physically more stable.

"I'm here," said Vincent.

"Kiss me?" Greg asked, his voice needy and raw.

Vincent looked perplexed, but complied. Greg knew he tasted foul, but Vincent soldiered on, focusing on nibbling and biting Greg's soft skin under his chin as well as deeply kissing Greg's lips.

He was remarkably good at making out while balancing a sleeping baby, Greg observed. What a father.

They pulled apart from each other with gasps and haggard breaths.

"Do you want to…" Vincent asked, and his hand trailed down Gregory's thighs.

"I can't," Gregory said, and draped himself over Vincent's body. "I... I just want to be close to you."

Vincent - ever the harder one, the tougher one, despite his softer body - stroked his lover's hair. "Shh," he murmured, "it's all right."

"I thought you were... I thought..."

Greg tended to blubber when he was overwrought, and tonight was no different.

"Shhh," comforted Vincent. "This was the last time I'll be on the crew. I promise."

"But you've said that so many times," Gregory said, "and every time they call, you go back.

"It's… it's like our parents with the Dark Lord," Greg added, burrowing his face in Vincent's shoulder, ashamed of the very thought.

Vincent thought carefully about his response. "You're right," he answered sadly, "and I have had that very same thought too. So I brought you flowers," he said, helplessly, "and tonight, I promise - I swear - I will not go out on call again."

He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling with deliberation. "I told them tonight that I had my husband and little girl waiting at home, and I wasn't planning on leaving them anytime soon."

Greg looked up, startled. "Husband?"

Vincent grinned slowly. "We have a child together. Even if we can't, legally, be husbands, I think we're more than fiancees."

Greg felt his face flush, and it wasn't his body's immune system.

"You're… you're right," he said, his voice soft and grateful. "But my darling," he went on, "why is it different, tonight? How do I know tomorrow you won't leave when you get another call?"

With that, Vincent got up, searched his pants for his cell phone, and took it out. Then, with a motion of his wand, the cell phone ended up in smithereens.

"If I don't get a call," Vincent said, his grin wide in the darkness, "I won't go."

Greg was deeply moved by the motion, but he was still suspicious.

"But… but darling," he murmured, "why tonight? Why today? Why now, when I've been begging you for months and months?"

Vincent's eyes became darker, and he shook his head. "I would tell you," he said, "but I really can't." He paused. "Something happened during this trip, which I can't explain in detail, that made me realize my conscience was wrapped around the wrong priorities. Also," he apologized gently, "the enemy stole our phones, and we were in the middle of the desert. I wanted to call, and I knew you would worry. I'm sorry."

Greg's heart twisted with anticipation and joy.

"I realized that instead of risking my life and limb for someone who doesn't give a shite about me," Vincent said, his voice trembling, "I'd be wiser to risk myself for the people who do."

He took a deep breath, and Greg began to tear up in joy.

"You're breaking the cycle," he said, relief spreading throughout his body, a better medicine than the best potions money could buy. "You're forgiving your debts to society. You're giving yourself freedom."

"You're right," Vincent said, and with a smile, he crawled back onto the bed. "We're breaking the cycle, Greg."

Then, with a gentle sigh, Vincent put the sleepy Melanie back in her cradle, and the two men snuggled together, for the first time feeling like the oppression of their years of servitude to powerful dark wizards was lifted.


End file.
